Chapter 7: Broken

Aaron stared at her, breath hitching like a snag in his throat, the lake lapping at his boots with a rhythm too steady for the storm brewing inside him. The demoness sat there, perched on the edge like she owned it, her human mask fraying at the seams. His ember eyes burned, peeling back the lie—beneath that smooth skin, she was a nightmare made flesh. Red eyes bled malice, glowing like embers plucked from a slaughter; charcoal skin stretched taut over bones too sharp, too wrong; hair not hair at all but horns, curling wild and black, elegant and hideous in a way that twisted his gut. She was a cathedral of ruin, beautiful in her horror, and he hated her for it.

"Shit," he rasped, voice cracking like a twig underfoot. He'd let it slip—anger roaring up, hot and blind, when he'd hurled that knife. Dumb move. Sloppy. His chest heaved, air scraping his lungs raw, and he forced it down, slow, deliberate. In. Out. He'd fucked up once, letting rage steer him into the dark. Not again. This time, he'd ride it—use it—make it a blade instead of a noose.

His eyes locked on hers, white hair falling messy over his forehead, and he let the wrath show—let it blaze, a fire she couldn't miss. Her smile faltered, just a flicker, lips twitching like she'd tasted something sour. Those bloody eyes narrowed, a ripple of unease crossing her face—something primal, deep in her gut, screaming wrong. A sixth sense, maybe, howling at the boy with the innocent face and the ember humming in his veins like a war drum. She shifted, scarf slipping, horns glinting in the dusk, and Aaron saw it: caution. She didn't know him—not yet—but she felt him, and it scared her.

Good.

His hand moved—fast, too fast for a kid. The knife at his belt was gone in a blink, flung not with a flick but a snap, like an arrow loosed from a bowstring stretched to breaking. It sang through the air, a silver streak aimed dead at her eye, cutting the dusk with a whistle that made the lake shiver. She twisted—barely—head jerking back, the blade grazing her cheek, slicing a thin red line across that charcoal skin. Blood welled, dark and thick, dripping slow, a smear against her elegance. Too close. Too fast.

She froze, breath hitching, that smile gone now, replaced by a snarl that bared teeth too long, too sharp. "Who are you?" she hissed, voice dropping low, soft edges peeling back to reveal the venom beneath. Her hand twitched toward the scratch, fingers brushing it, smearing the blood like war paint. Her eyes—red as slaughter—bored into him, wide and searching, like she could peel his soul open and find the answer stitched inside.

Aaron didn't flinch. Didn't answer. His chest burned, ember flaring hot under his ribs, spells humming in his muscles, his bones—strength coiled tight, ready to snap.

The demoness moved now, cautious as a cat on a wire, her playful grin gone, replaced by a snarl that bared too-sharp teeth. She sidestepped, claws flexing, red eyes glinting like spilled blood under the bruise-purple sky. Aaron stood still, boots planted at the lake's edge, water lapping cold against his heels. His breath steadied—slow, deliberate, a bellows stoking the ember in his veins. He'd lost it once, let anger fling that knife too soon. Not now. Now it was fuel, a storm he'd ride 'til it broke her.

She struck. Fast. Her hand darted to her cheek, smearing the blood from his last throw—dark, thick, dripping like tar. It flowed into the air, twisting, hardening into knives, small and cruel, shaped like his own blade—a mocking echo. "Let's see how you like it," she hissed, voice silk over venom, and hurled them—sharp, whistling streaks aimed to shred him.

Aaron moved. Too fast. His foot kicked off the dirt, a blur, a blink, and he was there—right in her face, the blood knives slicing empty air behind him. Ember flared, hot and wild, surging from his nerves, his bones, his muscles—layering thick over his knuckles like molten iron. His fist snapped forward, a hammer of wrath, and slammed into her stomach. The impact roared, a crack like thunder splitting the dusk, and her body flew—fast, too fast—crashing into a giant stone by the lake's edge.

She hit hard. Too hard. Her form splattered against it, a grotesque painting—charcoal skin cracking, spine snapping loud enough to echo, hands and legs shattering into jagged shards. Blood sprayed, dark and wet, streaking the stone like ink flung wild. She was stuck, pinned, a ruin of splintered bone and torn flesh, but those red eyes stayed on him—wide, unblinking, glowing through the mess.

Aaron walked slow, deliberate, boots crunching dirt, breath heaving like a beast let loose. "I know your kind," he said, voice low, rough as gravel, each word a stone dropped into the silence. His fist flickered again—ember blazing, knuckles glowing—and he punched, right at her chest. A wet, shattering crack. "Too well," he growled, another blow, sonic, splitting the air. Her body jolted, more blood spilling, pooling at his feet, staining the stone in smears of black and red.

He didn't stop. Couldn't stop actually. "I know you so damn well," he snarled, fist slamming again—bone crunching, flesh tearing—a sonic punch that shook the reeds, sent ripples racing across the lake. "And I also know, how to make you kneel," he spat, another hit, her ribs caving under the ember's glow. Again. Again. Again. Each blow a thunderclap, each word a vow, his wrath pouring out—hot, blinding, unstoppable. Her pleas—soft, broken gasps—scoffed over him, ignored, drowned in the rhythm of his fists.

Blood coated his hands, slick and warm, dripping from his knuckles to join the mess on the ground—same as the splatter on the stone, same as the ruin she'd become. He kept going, punching 'til there was nothing left—muscles mashed, bones dust, intestines a twisted smear layered on the rock like some sick artist's work. A painting of meat and malice, her red eyes dimming, fading, only a deem light left.

Aaron stepped back, chest heaving, breath ragged, fists trembling as the ember flickered out. The stone loomed, cracked under her weight, its giant bulk teetering like it might fall. Blood pooled at its base, thick and dark, catching the last light like spilled ink. He stared at it, hands dripping, and a laugh broke free—short, bitter, cutting through the quiet like a snapped string. "Not my best piece of work," he rasped, voice hoarse, "but satisfactory."

The lake stretched silent behind him, water still now, reflecting the bruised sky and the wreckage he'd made. His knuckles throbbed, ember cooling, leaving just the ache—rage spent, but the weight stayed. Ma's hum flickered in his mind, soft and off-key, Amelia's grin flashing bright and stubborn. He'd done it for them, hadn't he? To keep her claws off this life he'd clawed back.

But the blood on his hands felt too familiar—too much like before, when he'd painted the world red and called it power. He wiped them on his trousers, slow, methodical, like he could scrub it away.

"lets just wash it at the lake" he muttered, like this was the reason he had lured her here. Just to be done with her and clean his hands at the end.

.

.

.

Aaron woke to sunlight slicing through the cracked window, a rude jab that made him groan like a creaky floorboard. His fists throbbed—numb, stiff, like he'd spent the night hammering nails with his bare hands. He stretched them, knuckles popping sharp and loud, a crack-crack-crack that could've roused a ghost. "Guess I don't know my own strength," he rasped, voice scraping out rough and dry, a laugh clawing up behind it—short, bitter, tasting of dust. Yesterday crashed back: those wild punches, the blood-smeared stone, the demoness flattened like a sloppy sketch. A tenth of his strength, maybe—hell, he'd have to squint to call it that. In his prime, he'd split mountains, turned cities to cinders. Now? A kid again, thinking he'd outdone his past with a few desperate swings. "What a damn joke," he muttered, and the laugh broke free, jagged and mean.

Ma slept on, sprawled across the bed, her snores a soft buzz beneath the morning hush. White hair splayed wild over the pillow, flecks of flour still caught in the strands—she'd wrestled dough in her dreams and won. Aaron slid off the mattress, floor cold under his feet, and tugged his sheet over her—too fast, too rough, it snagged on her elbow, but she didn't stir. "Sleep, Ma," he whispered, throat tight like he'd swallowed a stone, and slipped out before her hum could pull him back.

He went back—back to the lake, back to the mess he'd left yesterday. The air hung thick, damp with dew and the sour rot of blood, pressing down like a wet rag. The stone jutted up, cracked and stained, but the demoness wasn't just a smear anymore. She was stitching herself together—slow, grotesque, a lump of flesh twitching back to life. Charcoal skin pulsed, bones creaked into place, her shape a mangled draft—horns bent, one eye half-sprouted, guts dangling like wet laundry on a sagging line.

"Took you long enough," Aaron said, voice flat as the lake behind him. He leaned against a tree, arms crossed, a smirk tugging his lips—couldn't help it. She looked ridiculous, this half-dead thing clawing its way back.

She jolted—shrieked, a high, broken yelp that split the quiet—and those red eyes flared wide, glowing through the muck. "No—no, please!" she wailed, dragging her corpse-like body back, limbs scraping dirt, leaving a slick trail of blood and slime. "Forgive me—forgive me, I beg you!" Her voice cracked, frantic, piling over itself—again, again, again—like a bird trapped in a tin can, wings beating bloody.

Aaron's smirk flickered, then set hard. "Relax," he snapped, sharp enough to slice through her noise. He stepped closer, boots crunching reeds, and squatted down, elbows on his knees, close enough to smell the rot. "What the hell are you doing here? This nowhere village? Why me—why try luring me?"

She froze, trembling, her half-formed hand clawing at the dirt like it could hold her steady. Pain rippled through her—spine twisted, legs a tangle—but fear shook her worse, those bloody eyes darting wild. "I—I was ordered," she blurted, words tripping over each other, fast and messy. "The Demon Queen—she sent me, told me to find you, to pull you towards us—"

Aaron's breath caught, a cold fist slamming his gut. "Demon Queen?" He barked a laugh—short, harsh, like he'd choked on it. "You're shitting me." But her eyes didn't flinch—not now, wide and spilling truth he didn't want to see. His head spun, an ember flickering low in his chest, a hum he couldn't shake. The Queen? That cackling old hag who'd grinned when he'd claimed his throne, who'd watched him torch his world and called it a game? She'd sent this—this sniveling wreck—to yank him back?

He stood, slow, fists flexing—still numb, still sore—and stared down at her. The lake stretched out, water dark and still, catching the bruised sky and his snarl in its glassy face. "Orders, huh?" he said, voice low, a growl curling under it. "Guess you picked the wrong kid to screw with."

She flinched, dragging herself back another inch, guts trailing like a slug's slime. "Please—I didn't—I didn't mean—" Her pleas overlapped again, a babbling mess, and Aaron's smirk crept back, crooked and sharp.

"Didn't mean to get your ass splattered on a rock?" He snorted, a laugh punching through—bright, absurd, like he'd just heard the punchline of the year. "You're a masterpiece, you know that? Should've stayed dead—saved me the mop-up."

The air pressed heavier, thick with damp and the faint whiff of burnt toast—maybe his own skull frying under the weight of it. His fists twitched, ember simmering, but he held back—not yet. Ma's hum lingered in his ears, soft and off-key, Amelia's grin flashing like a spark. He'd smashed her for them, hadn't he? To keep this scrappy little life, this nothing village, from crumbling to ash again.

But the Demon Queen? That was a knife he hadn't braced for. He rubbed his knuckles—blood still crusted there, a stubborn stain—and glanced at the stone, her mess oozing across it like a painting he couldn't finish. "Guess I've got bigger fish to gut," he muttered, half to her, half to the wind. Her whimpers faded, a thin sob swallowed by the reeds, and he turned away, boots scuffing dirt, leaving her there—broken, begging, unanswered.